


I Stretch Out My Hands

by sherlocktheholmes



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Beating, Blood, Blood Magic, Branding, Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Cutting, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Magic, Non-Consensual Bondage, Oh god they talk about their feelings, Pining, The Author Regrets Nothing, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-06-27 23:27:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19799959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocktheholmes/pseuds/sherlocktheholmes
Summary: With no final prophecy from Agnus Nutter, and no word from Heaven or Hell for months, Aziraphale and Crowley are cautiously optimistic that neither of them will face retribution. They never considered that they should fear personal revenge.





	1. Chapter One

Crowley was sprawled across the couch in the backroom of Aziraphale's bookshop, lazily swirling his sixth (seventh?) nearly empty glass of wine before downing the last of it. The angel providing the wine, shop, couch, and company was sitting more primly in his office chair; but as he was similarly sloshed, he wasn't as exact in his posture as usual. Both were at ease, content in their respective positions and with present company. 

They had been chatting about something or other that was pleasant but unimportant and had drifted into equally pleasant silence. Several months had passed with no word from either heaven or hell; it had been unnerving at first to them both, but the wariness had largely worn off. They decided that they had been left well enough alone by their respective home offices. They still had their hobbies to occupy their time, of course: the Bentley, antique books, plants; but with the forces that had previously pulled them apart and occupied them with mundanities gone, angel and demon had found themselves more and more drawn into each other’s orbit. 

“Another, dear boy?” 

Crowley smoothly raised his glass toward Aziraphale who reached to take it, grazing his fingers slightly as he did so. Pins and needles stung across Crowley’s skin where he had been touched. He made no reaction, and Aziraphale didn’t notice. Of course he had no idea, no angel or demon would, as far as he knew, seeing that prolonged contact between the two entities never happened. Either one party would flee, or quickly perish, if they ever happened to meet. But an angel is a holy being, and anything holy will burn a demon. 

It wasn’t exactly like they had really had much in the way of physical contact over the millennia; a brush of a hand here or there, an accidental bump of the shoulder; but gloved hands or clothed arms dampened any and all sensations. Slightly more contact had occurred in several cases when it had been necessary to ape customary human greetings in order to blend in. Once, memorably, they had traded kisses on the cheek while in Southern France and Crowley could have swore he felt the sting on his face and lips for days after. 

“My dear fellow?”

Crowley snapped back from his memories of Aziraphale and France. He accepted his newly filled glass with less sophistication than he imagined. “Ta,” He muttered. 

Still, the evening was nice. Or should have been. Crowley watched Aziraphale from the safety of his sunglasses. The angel was settling himself comfortably back down in his chair with his own refreshed glass of wine. More these past few months than at any other time in the six thousand years, Crowley found himself just _staring_ at Aziraphale. He couldn’t even explain to himself why. It seemed that the more time they spent together, the longer their walks and chats and the shorter the time in between their meetings, the more Crowley found his mind preoccupied with simply looking at him, wondering if he’d ever look back. Damned if he knew why he was doing it, either.

Aziraphale leaned forward with a frown. “Crowley,” He hesitated a moment, “Are you feeling quite well?”

_Shit._

__

_When in doubt, affect bravado._ “Sorry. Bit of a daze. Must’ve hit me harder than I thought.” Crowley waved his glass to implicate the wine. 

__

__Aziraphale hummed in an unconvinced way._ _

__

__Eager to avoid suspicion, Crowley began to prattle, “It’s just, I've been a bit tired lately. Not much going on, really, and seeing as how I don’t really have to keep up appearances with the head office… I guess I was thinking about having a nice long nap. Should be just the thing to set me to rights.”_ _

__

__Aziraphale sat up straighter in his armchair. “A nap… how long is long? Because for you a long nap is… quite long,” he finished lamely, but with narrowed eyes._ _

__

Now he was scrutinizing him. _Bugger._ “Weeeell. Not 'quite long'. Just a few days. Maybe a week. Just clear my head a bit, yeah?” 

__

__“Quite,” Aziraphale attempted a smile that didn’t reach his eyes._ _

__

__Crowley groaned inwardly._ _

__

__\---_ _

__

__Elsewhere, the chilly night was almost picturesque. Somewhere far outside of London, the light pollution was nearly non-existent and the stars above dazzled in the velvety sky. Below, nestled among the trees, a tableau consisting of an old church and a graveyard sat quietly under the sparkling heavens. There was no sign of anyone about that the late hour, no wind rustling the bare branches of the trees. Even the cows in the nearby field were silent. All was quiet and still._ _

__

__With no preamble, four figures appeared, suddenly standing in the shadow cast by the moon and the Western Tower of the church. Three stood in a line nearer to the wall, and one stood out a pace ahead of them, all four facing the graveyard. So smoothly did they appear that the quietness and stillness were not disturbed. They simple inserted themselves into the backdrop as though they had always been standing, solemnly, there. They didn’t speak, or look about themselves, or make any movement. They merely stood with hands clasped in front, and kept their vigil._ _

__

__They didn’t have to wait long. Soon, the silence and the dirt of the graveyard were both disturbed as the earth shuddered and cracked. Two figures began to push up from the loam like a pair of foul daisies. The noise they made as they ascended was like stones grating against each other, and a faint whiff of brimstone and rot came with them. They rose until their feet were clear of the earth, brushing themselves cleanish as they stalked toward the four figures standing by the church, dodging gravestones as they went. They came to a stop several paces away from the group of four. Silence fell again, and stretched for a moment before the lead of the group of four spoke._ _

__

__“Hastur. Dagon.”_ _

__

__The taller of the couple glared at the speaker. “Gabriel.”_ _

__

__There was a pause that stretched too long to be polite, or even comfortable. The group wouldn’t have been out of place in a Gothic Cathedral, albeit with a change in wardrobe: the angels solemnly guarding the portals and the demons crouching on the roofs as gargoyles._ _

__

__Finally, Gabriel spoke again, “Look. None of us want to be here, in mixed company, doing this.” He held his palms out in an exasperated gesture, “but nothing has worked so far for us… or for you either. Michael tells me you two have had no luck tracking down the demon Crowley.”_ _

__

__“Demon is hardly the proper title,” Hastur ground out, “Any true demon would have ensured Armageddon went forward with no problems.”_ _

__

__“And any true angel,” Gabriel took a step closer and lowered his voice, “Would have done the same. But Aziraphale betrayed us, just like Crowley betrayed you.”_ _

__

__Dagon, spoke up, smiling with incredibly pointy teeth, “He lied right to our faces. We have plans for Crowley.”_ _

__

__Gabriel held up a hand, “And we have plans for Aziraphale. We just have to find him first.” He ground his teeth, “I don’t know how he’s hiding from us,” a vein stood out on his forehead, “but it’s like he's a blank spot. Even his bookshop is cloaked. Every time we’ve tried to go there we just… find ourselves moved somewhere else.” Gabriel flashed his teeth in a horrible grin and shrugged his shoulders sarcastically._ _

__

__“It is the same for us,” Hastur croaked out, “We have tried going to Crowley’s flat but it… disappears. We constantly find ourselves where we weren’t trying to be.” He squinted at the group of four. “What’s your point?”_ _

__

__Gabriel regained his composure, “Well, all this frustration may be a temporary setback,” He turned slightly toward the group behind him, “because it doesn’t seem like they are warded against everyone.”_ _

__

__One of the three angels in the back stepped forward to stand by Gabriel. “It would probably interest you to know,” Michael said, “That today I went by there. Crowley’s flat.”_ _

__

__Hastur scoffed._ _

__

__Michael merely smiled. Gabriel leaned toward her conspiratorially, “Show them.”_ _

__

__She held up her mobile phone, and scrolled through several menacing selfies clearly taken at several locations in Crowley’s flat; in front of the angel and demon statue, gently caressing a verdant leaf, lounging in his ridiculous chair._ _

__

__Both demons were transfixed. Then Dagon giggled, “D’you reckon he would have invented selfies if he’d foreseen this?”_ _

__

__Hastur still wasn’t sure was a selfie was, but he wasn’t about to be deterred from his goal. “So you are able to go where we cannot.”_ _

__

__“Exactly,” Gabriel smiled unpleasantly, “And presumably, we will be able to...acquire…who you cannot.”_ _

__

__Now Hastur too was smiling unpleasantly, which was very different but equally disturbing. “Suppose this works the other way round too.”_ _

__

__“Suppose it does.”_ _

__

__“Would you be interested in making a trade?”_ _

__

__Gabriel’s eyes glittered. “Sounds like a mutually beneficial arrangement.”_ _


	2. Chapter Two

After their conversation dwindled awkwardly, Crowley had beat a coward’s retreat and went home, where he unsuccessfully tried to sleep for the rest of the night. The irony was not lost on him that he could not. His mind had been filled equally with urges to call Aziraphale up, beg pardon for acting mulish, and ask to see him; or to run away very fast and disappear, perhaps to the bottom of the Mariana Trench.

He managed to finally drift off sometime near dawn, but it did him no good. Instead of blissful oblivion, he'd had an odd dream that didn't so much tend towards nightmarish, but left such an impact that he came wide awake with the feeling from it still caught in his throat. In it, he and Aziraphale sat together in the middle of a field. Wind ruffled their clothes and hair, and the grass around them. Above, the sky quietly undulated with dark clouds. Just ahead, a tall cliff led precipitously to the sea, which crashed about forlornly. No other sounds were heard, no other living creatures were in sight.

It was all very gloomy. Crowley shivered and looked at Aziraphale, who didn't say anything, but stared straight ahead, appearing to be very lost in thought. Crowley turned forward too, and let his mind go blank as the clouds above and the sea below roiled. There they stayed for what seemed like a long time, specks in the middle of a tumult.

Warmth spread over Crowley's hand. He jerked his head to the side to see that Aziraphale had covered it with his own. There was no pain at all, no sting to the touch. Crowley pulled his glasses down with his free hand to peer at where they were joined. He could feel the warmth seeping into and up his arm. The angel still stared ahead, as if he were a million miles away. He pressed his glasses back up and turned to face the horizon with him. Aziraphale gently squeezed his hand. 

Crowley awoke then, and for a long time was perfectly motionless, still feeling the warmth of Aziraphale's hand in his own. Finally, he sat up and tangled his fingers in his hair for a moment before stumbling out of bed. He dressed himself with a snap of his fingers, and stomped toward the door. He went for a very long, very fast drive that cleared his head a little. At least it gave his hands something to do, and driving was soothing enough that he was able to ignore his stupid brain as long as he was behind the wheel. No doubt this was why Aziraphale hated to ride with him. 

_Well, maybe if you didn't aggravate him all the time…_ Crowley pulled up to the kerb and parked, any semblance of a good mood dying with the engine's rumble. He scowled at the steering wheel. He knew he was being ridiculous, just as he knew he shouldn't do anything to alienate the only being he cared for, the only one who thought he was worth the time of day. Crowley roughly shoved the driver's door open and slammed it shut harder than necessary; treating the Bentley harsher than he'd ever done before and certainly harsher than it deserved.

He ascended to his floor and unlocked his flat with a sigh. He stripped his jacket off and tossed it on his extravagant chair, leaving himself in a thin t-shirt and waistcoat. He toed off his boots and socks as well, with the vague idea he might collapse on the bed and attempt to sleep again in an effort to raise his fractious mood. If he could just black out for a while without dreaming of gloomy cliffs or hands or anything, really, anything at all, that would be excellent. 

Crowley was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he didn’t sense anything amiss until he opened the door to his bedroom and stepped inside. By then it was too late. As the door swung shut behind him, a complicated series of symbols, painted in red on the floor and arranged in a series of concentric circles and patterns, glowed gold as though they sensed his presence and were hungry for it. He was instantly rooted to the spot. He couldn’t move a muscle, couldn’t yelp in surprise, couldn’t so much as blink.

The symbols glowed so brightly he couldn’t see anything beyond his little circle. His sunglasses, still on his face, didn't help him peer into the dimness beyond either. The room seemed to hum with a kind of electric current. Beyond the buzz, Crowley was sure he could hear whispered voices chanting something, but who was speaking or what they were saying was impossible to discern. 

He didn’t have long to ponder. Out of the corner of his right eye he saw movement, and something bright approaching the right side of his head. It was hard to focus on it without being able to move his eyes. As it slowly neared, it was easier to see that it was a brand, forged into an intricate pattern, perhaps the size of a fifty pence coin. It was red hot. Heat rolled off it in waves as it came nearer to his face until it seemed his skin would split. 

Crowley threw every bit of power he had, both demonic and physical, into trying to move. The lights of the sigil on the floor wavered, and his hand twitched. For a moment he thought he may escape. Then the symbols grew all the brighter and held him fast. In a quick and precise movement, the brand shot forward and pressed into the snake tattoo just in front of Crowley’s ear.

The burning was agony, but Crowley couldn’t fight it off and couldn’t scream; he could only stand there frozen and listen to his own flesh sizzle. 

Whoever it was holding the iron pulled it back. Crowley felt suddenly, horribly drained, like a wine bottle tipped up to empty out the dregs. The gold light blinked out of existence, leaving only the red markings, but he couldn’t make use of the freedom. He collapsed to his knees, and then to the floor. His mouth gasped for a breath that he couldn’t seem to draw in, and his shaking hand scraped against the floor as he tried to bring it to his face. He writhed in agony. The pain seemed to build to a crescendo as his strength faltered. The last thing he saw before winking out of consciousness was several pairs of highly polished shoes walking toward him.


	3. Chapter Three

Crowley's kind didn't exactly need sleep, but he indulged in it for much the same reason Aziraphale indulged in food, or that they both indulged in wine; humans could come up with some truly wonderful, pleasant notions. As he liked sleep, he had a few months ago procured a very large, very overpriced bed, in such a way that it hadn't actually had a price (at least, not for him) and he had spent many lazy nights, mornings, and afternoons napping away anything he found unpleasant, like boredom. Thus, when he woke up his first thought was _This isn’t my bed._

His second and third thoughts, as he groggily came more awake, were to wonder almost detachedly why he was upright, and why his feet were burning. He cracked open one eye.

The room he found himself in was dark. Only scant moonlight filtered into the gloom. It was very cold, barring the burning floor, and the air seemed to have the slightly restless quality only found in large and empty spaces. Crowley focused as well as he could on the ground. The floor seemed completely normal, some sort of flagstone, hard against his bare feet. His gaze floated up to the middle distance. There, illuminated in a pale glow, was an altar and a crucifix. 

_This is a church._

Crowley jerked to full alertness only to find he couldn't move. He was definitely upright, but his arms and legs were immobile. Cold panic set in as he tried to wrench himself free, thrashing like a trapped animal, but he was thoroughly bound. Steeling himself with a deep breath, he forced his mind to calm down and assess the situation. Turning his head from one side to the other, Crowley saw that his arms were tightly outstretched and his wrists were firmly tied by rough rope to a cold wooden beam. His ankles were similarly bound. Craning his neck further back, Crowley was able to see that he was fettered to a Saint Andrew's Cross. Now he noticed that it too, like the consecrated ground against which his naked feet were pressed, singed against every point of his arms, legs, and back where it touched. His clothes did a little to block the heat, but not much. His face too, still ached with the brand that seemed to throb in time with his heartbeat.

_Well, bugger this._ Crowley made to set himself free with a thought but nothing happened. He tried again to free himself, cut the ropes, smash the wood, bend the space until he was no longer here but back in his flat, back in the bookshop- but there was nothing. Where his demonic powers ought to have been in his mind there was just an absence. It was so utterly bewildering that Crowley just blinked for a moment, stunned. He had never, not once, even had to think about how he was able to twist the physical world to his will, how he could entrance humans, how he did any of it. It just always happened when he wanted it to. But now… now it was like trying to pick something up only to find there is no arm there to reach out with at all, and the signals from your brain were firing into a void. The only resource he had, it seemed, was his efficiently and completely bound body. The feeling was almost claustrophobic.

The cold panic from before seeped back into the pit of his stomach, contrasting with the prickly bite of the blessed objects. He felt hysteria start to rise. Crowley dropped his head and screwed his eyes shut, breathing carefully to steady himself and trying to think what could have possibly happened, and what to do about it now. He supposed he still did have his brain, but not much good it was doing him, with the various flavors of pain he was experiencing tugging on him like a child who wanted sweets. 

"It stings a little, doesn't it?" 

Crowley's eyes snapped open behind his glasses. Out of the gloom a figure slowly emerged, taking shape from the deeper shadows of the church. It stepped around the altar and into a shaft of moonlight. Crowley involuntarily let out a hiss. The archangel Gabriel walked nonchalantly forward until he stopped a few feet in front of the bound demon. Crowley hadn’t seen him since the incident with the bookshop’s opening several centuries ago, but Aziraphale had mentioned enough about him over the years that he loathed the archangel more than most other beings. Gabriel smiled pleasantly. He was crisply, impeccably dressed in a pale suit. His hair was perfect, his posture exact, and his handsome, smiling face repulsive.

He clasped his hands in front and continued to speak in a blithe, almost sing-song tone, "It was tricky to plan. All this." He waved a hand around. "I mean, fighting demons- destroying them with Holy Water- that's easy. But capturing one alive?" He began to circle around the cross, staccato footsteps stopping directly behind Crowley, "Now that was a little bit harder." He leaned in just a little too far, hovering just over Crowley’s shoulder. "And to your credit, it wasn't easy to pull off."

Crowley's skin crawled at having him that close, but he refused to make any outward sign of his discomfort. Inside, however, his mind was racing. He had no idea why angels would want a living demon in their clutches, but he knew it didn't bode well for him.

Gabriel completed his circle and came to a stop in front of Crowley and stared, still smiling at him. "Fortunately, I had help."

Three more angels melted into view. Crowley started hard at them from behind his glasses. Sandalphon, Uriel, Michael. Aziraphale hadn’t had much nice to say about them either. So these were the bastards in his flat. Like Gabriel, they were perfect in their suits. They came to a stop a few paces behind Gabriel and stood at attention with their hands clasped in front. Sandalphon looked hungry for destruction, Uriel as if she'd like to crush Crowley beneath her heel and then wipe her boot clean. Michael was more dispassionate, like this was a mere preview to what she really wanted. 

Gabriel leaned in closer, enough to reach up and roughly yank Crowley's glasses from his face. The archangel’s fingers burned against his skin. Crowley kept his face impassive, his gaze non-specifically off to the left of Gabriel's ear.

"No doubt you've realized by now you're stuck. No powers of Hell at your back." Gabriel tapped Crowley's glasses against the palm of his hand as he tilted his head in faux contemplation. "It wasn't easy, like I said.” He pointed with the glasses to the right side of Crowley’s face. “All that took a lot of research and hard work. Plus we had to scout out this locale, ensure no humans would be anywhere near,” He heaved an exaggerated sigh, “Like I said, hard work.”

Crowley gave no reaction. While it was a sickeningly awful feeling, being stripped down to mortal level, it was why they were doing it that gnawed at him.

Gabriel spread his arms in mock incredulity. "What? No congratulations for how hard we worked? No polite inquiry as to why we needed to make the effort?"

Crowley stayed silent and continue to refuse to make eye contact.

Like a flipped switch, Gabriel's face changed from faux polite to cold with fury. He brought up Crowley's glasses and dangled them by an earpiece in front of the demon's face. Then he released his grip, dropping them to the stone floor and with a stomp, ground them under his heel.

_Mazel tov_ , Crowley thought with the tiny bubble of hysteria rising again in his chest. He squashed it back down.

Gabriel stepped forward and tangled his hand roughly in Crowley's hair, scraping nails leaving a burning trail in their wake, and yanked Crowley's head to one side. "Look at me."

In spite of helplessness, fear, and the pain Crowley was a spiteful creature, and had no plans to give him the satisfaction.

"I really just needed you here so I could ask you one simple question." Gabriel twisted harder. "Where. Is. Aziraphale."

Time actually, truthfully, seemed to slow down to a crawl. Crowley could feel a gasping breath pull into his lungs, but it seemed to take an eternity to fill them up. All previous plans to spite the angels for the fun of it flew out the window. His golden snake's eyes locked with Gabriel's purple ones, but his gaze was only met with pure malice. _So, this isn’t about me at all._ The other shoe had finally dropped, and heaven was out for the blood of one of their own.

Uriel spoke up, "He's committed treason, plain and simple." 

"Justice must be meted out," Sandalphon added.

Crowley glanced over to them. Michael added nothing, but he saw a glint in her eye that promised that their version of justice would be terrible.

"The problem is," Gabriel continued. Crowley's eyes flicked back to him. "We can't find him. I don't know what happened," Gritted teeth, "but he's a blind spot. We can't see him, we can't even find his bookshop anymore. I don't know what he did to hide himself," Gabriel's grip tightened so hard Crowley felt some hairs pull free, "But we will get him anyway. Right now, some old friends of yours are looking for him so we can trade.” Crowley blanched. “But it would save us a lot of trouble if you just let us know how to find him."

Gabriel shoved Crowley's head back as he released his grip and stepped back just one pace. His face resumed a venomously pleasant expression. “You two are little buddies, there’s no way you don’t know where he is. So come on. Help us out. Tell us where Aziraphale is and then we promise to let you go.”

Crowley didn’t snort at that, but it was a very near thing. Instead he stared steadily into Gabriel's eyes and replied, “If he and I are buddies why would you think I’d tell you anything?”

“Oh,” Gabriel’s eyes glittered coldly, “I was sort of hoping we’d have to convince you.”

He ferociously backhanded Crowley, snapping his head to the side. His lip split. Blood oozed out. Crowley said nothing, didn’t cry out, didn’t even acknowledge that there was anyone else in the room. He regained his former posture of staring straight ahead, silently, focusing on nothing. 

Gabriel smiled. “Michael, how would you like to go first?” 

Michael broke ranks and stalked up closer. Gabriel moved back toward the other two, happy to watch the show. Michael materialized the sleek iron brand, now fully cooled, in her right hand. She finally broke her staid expression to smirk coldly. Crowley maintained his stance. She raised her arm, and brought the iron viciously across his ribs.

\---

Aziraphale puttered aimlessly around his shop. He was closed for the night, not that he typically had many customers, or even regular hours. He'd spent the day attending to needless dusting, going over inventory he'd done the previous week, and otherwise trying to distract himself from worrying about Crowley. He sighed, something he'd been doing all day, and again contemplated just phoning him. 

But then, he might not want to speak with him, or he might be asleep. Aziraphale dithered. He could just go over to his flat and see if he was there. The hour was late, it was true, but… 

Aziraphale squared his shoulders. No. He wasn't going to hem and haw when it came to Crowley. He was the only being in existence who was really, truly, important. If he had a problem, he would do his best to help him. If he wanted to be left to sleep for heaven knows how long, then Crowley would have to tell him that straightforwardly, and to his face.

He hurriedly shrugged into his coat and marched out the door. 

\---

_Crack_

The situation was somewhat worse than what Crowley had thought it might be initially. He had thought he understood pain; after all, six millennia of existence meant that he’d had his fair share of bumps and bruises. Plus, being a demon, he had witnessed plenty of bodily harm. But now, with no way to instantly heal himself, things were sort of beginning to pile up. He hadn’t really reckoned what it would be like for injuries to compound themselves, for one hurt to pile onto another until you weren’t sure which was which.

_Crack_

Michael had been at it for what felt like forever. A small part of Crowley’s brain detachedly figured it hadn’t been all that long, really; it couldn't have been. But this human body was so weak, and Michael had cracked and bruised her way across his body, and particularly his ribs, to the point that breathing felt nearly impossible. This led to another horrible realization; with a human body, he now needed to breathe to function. He wasn’t even sure: if he ceased to breathe, would he merely be discorporated, or something far worse? 

_Crack_

The upside of being unable to breathe was that he had nothing to scream with, and so thus far had managed to keep his stubborn silence. He focused on the bitter satisfaction this brought to try to distract himself.

_Crack CRACK_

Michael struck him in the same place twice, fast. Crowley felt the rib break, a jagged corner tearing deep into flesh. He finally made a sound, a small choking wheeze, as his lung began to fill with blood.

"That's enough for the moment," Gabriel's voice drawled.

The blows stopped. Crowley slumped in his bindings. It was almost more than he could bear. His limbs were shaking as much as the ropes would allow, though without them Crowley knew he'd have collapsed to the ground by now. He gasped out choking breaths, weakly coughing up blood that dribbled down his chin.

Gabriel approached, his hands clasped, appearing for all the world like a man vaguely interested in the art gallery his date had dragged him to. Nothing else to look at for the moment, so he might as well observe and make an effort at commenting.

"Well, it's very nicely done Michael," he said, stopping just in front of Crowley. "Shame we can't keep it."

He raised his right hand and pressed his palm flat, fingers splayed, against Crowley's chest. Crowley's head snapped back. Hot agony blazed throughout his body, filling into the broken and cracked bones, pulling them right and fusing them back together. Blood returned to veins which sealed back smoothly. In an instant, Gabriel healed all the damage Michael had done, leaving him whole and with no pain, but exhausted and shaking. His head fell forward and his full weight sagged against his bonds. He felt hollow. The cross and the floor still burned him where they touched, so he felt both nauseated and feverish. Gabriel had, of course, declined to heal the brand which still ached insistently. 

Gabriel stepped back and, producing a silk handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his right hand clean, frowning a bit at where he had touched the damned creature. Finished, he tucked the bit of silk away again and turned toward his cohorts. 

"Sandalphon, why don't you go next?”


	4. Chapter Four

Aziraphale stood in front of Crowley's door, his hand raised to knock, but not actually moving. The determination he'd felt at the bookshop had carried him firmly all the way here, and was bolstered at the sight of the Bentley in front, meaning Crowley was almost assuredly home. Maybe now he could delve to the bottom of why he'd been so out of sorts the previous evening.

But now that he was actually in front of the door, he wavered. _What if he really just needs space? If I press him now, do I show I don't trust him? What if I push him away from me rather than toward?_ Aziraphale dropped his arm. _This is ridiculous. He's probably well into his nap. Perhaps I'd better check up on him in a few days…_

Aziraphale turned to leave. But then he stopped again. His own words from decades ago suddenly drifted back across his mind. _You go too fast for me, Crowley._ Throughout their long years together it had always been Crowley waiting for Aziraphale to catch up to him, the demon waiting patiently for the angel with his hand outstretched. He refused to believe he had missed his chance and that Crowley had finally tired of waiting for him. _No._ It was his turn to hold out his hand.

Aziraphale turned and rapped firmly on the door. No sound came from within. He knocked a second time, more insistently. Still silence from beyond the door. Now he felt silly. Just because the Bentley was parked just outside didn't mean Crowley was in. He could be on a walk, or he could have nipped over to China on a lark for all Aziraphale knew. He suddenly felt a bit deflated. All that indecision and the fellow wasn’t even in. Aziraphale turned to go once more. 

He got all the way to the lift when he froze in his tracks. It felt wrong to leave. He couldn't explain why. But something told him to go back. _Well,_ he said to himself as he walked back to the door and unlocked it with a wave of his hand, _I suppose if he is going to sleep for a week I ought to make sure his plants are watered._

With that rather feeble excuse in place, Aziraphale stepped into Crowley’s flat. Immediately something felt off. He couldn’t describe what it was; no sight or smell stood out. All was silent. The entryway was as stark as it had always been. But something made Aziraphale wary, so he stepped softly forward. 

“My dear fellow?” He called into the stillness. Nothing.

He proceeded carefully. The only thing of note in what might charitably be called the living room (though it looked like no comfortable living was done there) was Crowley’s jacket flung over the chair, and boots and socks scattered haphazardly on the floor. Aziraphale’s shoulders lost some of their tension. So Crowley was here, and no doubt asleep in the bedroom beyond. He picked the jacket up with the idea of hanging it so it wouldn’t be further wrinkled. 

Aziraphale stepped toward the bedroom, the door of which he noticed was ajar. There was something, too, on the floor… He dashed forward. Symbols in Enochian were painted on the floor just inside the door, somewhat smeared but still easily recognizable.. There was nothing else out of place. The bed was pristinely made. There were no signs of a living being anywhere in the flat. 

Aziraphale felt ill. “Crowley,” he whispered in a choked voice.

\---

Crowley's blood sizzled and steamed wherever it dropped onto the consecrated ground, boiling into sticky blots on the stone. Sandalphon, it turned out, preferred a blade. It was so sharp that it almost didn't hurt, at least not at first. But as the cuts, short, shallow, long, deeper, had slowly amassed, the pain had bloomed and grown. Blood welled up and out, and dripped down. Crowley was so weak, and very cold. He could no longer feel his fingers. His clothes were in shreds and hung as limply on his body as his body did on its cross. A roaring had been steadily growing in his ears. Black spots were beginning to obscure and blend with the dark red splotches of blood on the floor. Oblivion seemed near and Crowley was only too happy to sink into it.

For a long time there had been no sound except sharply drawn breaths and an irregular dripping. But now Gabriel's smooth voice rang through the fog in Crowley's head.

"Beautiful work, Sandalphon. Really love the delicate lines… But alas," Crowley barely sensed Gabriel's hand again on his ruined chest before the brief flash of agony rushed through him and his flesh knitted back together. Even his clothes joined back to being whole. It seemed too, Crowley noticed groggily as Gabriel finished and stepped back to once more wipe his hand clean with silk, that his cold blood had been returned from the floor to his veins. But not all. Just enough to evaporate the fog in his head, quiet the roaring in his ears, and clear the spots away from his eyes. The rest remained on the floor, tacky and dark. He was so weak, so much that he was sure if he were free, he would collapse and never be able to even crawl away. He still couldn’t feel his fingers. All he could do was hang there, silently, and tremble.

"Look, I'll admit it, your resolve is," Gabriel waved his hand as he searched for the right word, "impressive. I'd have figured you'd have at least said _something_ by now." Over his shoulder, Michael and Sandalphon's faces were sour. "But we are getting impatient, so…" 

Now Uriel stepped forward until she reached the spot that Gabriel vacated for her. She stood there for a moment. Then she reached forward to grab two fistfuls of Crowley's newly fixed t-shirt and tore it down the middle from collar to the top button of his waistcoat. The torn edges were pushed aside to reveal just enough bare skin. She reached into the pocket of her coat and pulled out something small that fit into her clenched fist, which she raised until it was eye level. Crowley reminded Iimp. She reached her left hand around to grasp and yank his head up so he had to look at her.

Then she relaxed her right hand and let dangle what was at first glance a necklace. Crowley realized weakly what it was and felt his stomach drop. There, swaying from the tip of Uriel's finger, hung a rosary. Crowley was frozen with fear like he hadn't felt in a long time, perhaps since his Fall. But there was no avoiding this. Enough adrenaline coursed through his veins that he balled his hands into fists, set his jaw, and started resolutely ahead. His head stayed steady as Uriel dropped her grip on his hair and took the rosary in both hands. She lifted it so it hung, like a noose, in front of Crowley's face. 

With no more than a cold smirk, Uriel leaned forward, and in a smooth movement, looped it over his head and positioned the rosary so it fully touched the bare skin on Crowley's neck and chest.

The Saint Andrew's Cross, symbol of an Apostle, stung. Consecrated ground, blessed for the holy purpose of bearing up a church, burned faintly. But the rosary, made for the prayers of humans begging for absolution, seared through and through. It burned down, down deep into Crowley's core, where his Grace had been so long ago. He felt as though his atoms were ablaze, the spaces between them filled with burning oil, but the fire didn’t consume him. It just continued to feed with no end in sight for the flames. 

Crowley couldn't help it. Couldn't even think. The scalding pain was so complete that he didn't know anything else. His head snapped back, eyes wide, staring unseeingly upwards, every muscle straining and spasming; and he screamed.


	5. Chapter Five

Aziraphale’s mind was in a whirlwind. He had dashed about frantically at first the previous night, feeling dizzy and vaguely sick. His first awful thought had been that Crowley was dead, truly gone, destroyed forever by Holy Water. But he had soon got a hold of himself and began to think about the situation logically. The Enochian symbols, the language of angels, on the floor had been carefully applied in what looked like blood. There was no explanation other than that angels had taken Crowley. And a kidnapping it must be. If they merely wanted him dead they could have easily set a trap with Holy Water. No. Aziraphale wasn’t sure what the symbols meant, not entirely; enough of them had been smeared that he couldn’t derive an entire phrase, but he had been able to pick out a few words like ‘enemy’, ‘bind’, and ‘subjugate’. 

From the flat, he had rushed back to his bookshop, still clutching Crowley’s jacket. He had no books written in Enochian, but he had many that dealt with various types of magic, some of which might have had smatterings of truth to them. He had spent the rest of the night frantically searching through his inventory for anything that might give him a clue about what had happened. He had also unearthed and pinned to the wall a large and fairly new map of England that he kept staring at, trying to think where they could have gone.

Finally, Aziraphale had accepted that first, no book could possibly help him and second, that the map of England was about as helpful as a map of Ethiopia might be, given that he had no idea if Crowley was even on Earth.

Now he sat, exhausted, numb, in the back of his shop. He had finally collapsed on the spot of the sofa Crowley usually occupied, where he had carefully placed his jacket before he began his fruitless research. Now he picked the garment up and stared almost unseeingly at it while his fried brain cast weakly about for any path to try. 

Distantly, Aziraphale heard the shop bell ring. It startled him up off the sofa. He knew he had locked the door behind him the previous night, but a locked door never stopped Crowley when he came for a visit. He dashed to the backroom’s doorway, clasping Crowley’s jacket, hoping wildly he’d see Crowley himself sashaying towards him with a wild explanation and a sheepish apology. 

He came to a dead stop in the frame. There, in the middle of the shop, stood two demons. Foulness rolled off them in waves as they stared at him. The taller glared with eyes that were entirely inky black. The shorter, when she saw Aziraphale, spread her mouth wide in a horrible grin that revealed many pointy teeth. Aziraphale stared at them while carefully setting Crowley’s jacket aside on a bookshelf. Then, he took a few deliberate steps closer.

“What do you want?” His tone was brittle.

The shorter one grinned, if it were possible, even wider, “So you’re the angel that our dear Crowley liked to spend so much time with.” Aziraphale bristled at the mention of Crowley, and at the use of past tense, but said nothing. She turned toward the taller one, “Can’t say I see what the fuss is all about, Hastur…”

He repeated himself with more ice, “What do you want.”

The taller demon, Hastur, spoke up, “I suppose you’ve been wondering where your little friend has gotten off too.”

Aziraphale’s voice was deadly, “Where.”

He smirked, “Suppose we just don’t tell you. Might be more fun to make you guess.”

In a blur, Aziraphale flew forward, grabbing a letter opener off his desk as he went past. His left hand seized Hastur’s coat and pushed him backward, off-balance, to slam him into the wall. His right hand pressed the tip of the letter opener against the demon's throat hard enough to draw a trickle of blood, and held it there, steady.

"Where."

The shorter demon spoke again, "Buckinghamshire. A little village called Hambleden." She shuffled into view at a safe distance, arms held placatingly in the air.

"How do I know this isn't trap for me? What proof have you that he's there and still alive?"

“Not to worry,” She said in a mockingly soothing tone, “We thought you’d want to check for yourself.” She reached into a pocket to pull out a mobile phone, and swiftly tapped a couple of buttons. The rings, on speakerphone, sounded loudly through the tense air of the bookshop.

_"Hallo?"_

Aziraphale pressed the letter opener harder, making Hastur hiss. He knew that voice. _Michael._

"Dagon here, Michael. Hate to be a bother, but I've got Aziraphale here and he wants to know if his little boyfriend is there with you all.”

\---

Time stretched interminably. Crowley didn't know when it might be, except the light was brighter and coming in the windows at a slant. He had no idea how long he’d worn the rosary. He knew it had come off at some point, and that his flesh had been healed from the burns. But that was all he’d been able to process before oblivion, blissfully, claimed him. 

He had groggily been drifting in and out of consciousness for what was probably a while. He seemed to be alone during the times he was aware, but it was hard to focus. He hurt. Oh, he _hurt._ His body was so weak, but constantly trembling. His mouth felt very dry and his head was spinning. Crowley wasn’t sure how long he’d been effectively human, but he knew he needed to have water to live. _Be a bit funny if after all this I die of thirst,_ he thought, with the familiar feeling of hysteria threatening to break through again. 

Sometime later when the shadows had switched sides and the light caught little dust motes as they lazily floated through the air, he passed out, but not into darkness. The church around him smeared and coalesced into the field and sea from his dream. Aziraphale was still there, beside him on the grass, staring out to the clouds and sea. And, blissfully, his hand was still on his, still holding it gently. Still wonderfully warm. Crowley was so grateful for the reprieve, and for a tender touch, that he almost found himself weeping. He allowed himself to do nothing but sit and look ahead, and to feel Aziraphale’s hand. They stayed like that for a short while.

Then Aziraphale spoke, “My dear,” His voice was soft.

Crowley twisted to look at him. Aziraphale had finally turned as well. They started silently at each other for a moment before Aziraphale lifted his free hand and carefully removed Crowley’s sunglasses. That was helpful; it was growing quickly darker.

Aziraphale whispered so quietly that Crowley almost missed his words over the roar of the wind and the sea, “I am so sorry.”

That was when Crowley felt something wet on his cheeks, and realized he actually was crying. No sobs, just tears mutely dripping down his face. 

Aziraphale’s hand tightened on his as the light began to rapidly fade, “Please, my dear, hold on…”

A loud and regular tapping drifted into his foggy brain, growing louder. 

“Still asleep? At this hour?” Gabriel’s voice grated. “Buddy, you’ve slept all day! How can you possibly be tired still?”

Crowley didn’t even try to think of a rejoinder. He dimly saw that all four of them were back, with Gabriel at the fore and the other three neatly lined up behind, as per usual.

Gabriel continued speaking in a voice that was horribly chipper, “So I hate to be that guy, but have you had a chance to think more about my question?” A slight pause, during which Gabriel plastered a pleasant smile on his face. “Where is Aziraphale?” He added in a tone that was meant to sound like a helpful reminder.

Crowley longed for darkness to claim him again. 

Michael spoke up from her place in line, “Gabriel? I’m getting a call.” Her voice held a note of false surprise. She held up her mobile, which glowed and buzzed faintly. 

“Oh, of course, please.” Gabriel’s voice was tinged with amusement. He stepped to the side as Michael took a few steps forward. She answered the call on speakerphone.

“Hallo?”

_"Dagon here, Michael.”_

Crowley felt a rush of adrenaline. His head snapped up. 

_“Hate to be a bother, but I've got Aziraphale here and he wants to know if his little boyfriend is there with you all.”_

Crowley’s stomach turned sick. 

Gabriel replied, “Dagon, yes, give us just a second,” He nodded to Uriel, “And we will put him on for you.”

Uriel drew the rosary out of her pocket and swiftly strode towards Crowley. He tried to balk. Even with the rush of adrenaline, his struggles were pathetic and he knew it. 

As Uriel reached him and raised her arms, Crowley gasped out in a voice that was ruined with dehydration and screaming, “Aziraphale! Don’t-”

But that was all the further he got before the rosary touched his flesh and raw agony claimed his body and mind again. He wailed.

\---

For a very long moment Aziraphale was immobile, hand and letter opener still pinning Hastur in place. It lasted from when he first heard Crowley’s voice pleadingly yell his name, and went on until after Dagon ended the call. 

“Like I said. A little village called Hambleden in Buckinghamshire. They’re at the church called Saint Mary the Virgin. What say you let Hastur go and we all head over there together, yeah?”

Aziraphale blinked. Then drove the letter opener clear through Hastur’s throat, stabbing a divet into the plaster of the wall as it came out the other side. He twisted it roughly as it pulled it free, leaving Hastur to collapse as he choked on his own blood. He turned to discorporate Dagon next, but she’d already fled.

Instead he threw the bloody letter opener down, and turned to the map on the wall.


	6. Chapter Six

Crowley was fairly certain he was hallucinating. He was sure that the pain was still somewhere, ruining him, but he wasn’t enduring it at the moment. Instead, he was back in the same dream, sitting on the grass with Aziraphale. They were just as they left off before: his glasses off, their hands holding, facing each other. The sky and the sea were angrier than before, and the wind had picked up considerably. Crowley was still weeping, his face cold with tears.

He swallowed thickly as he started into Aziraphale's hazel eyes. “Are you really here, Angel?”

Aziraphale smiled as he replied, “Of course I am, my dear fellow. Where else would I be?”

Crowley swallowed, “Heading into danger. Please, if you can somehow really hear me, you've got to stay away." He reached over to clutch Aziraphale's hand in both of his. "They've set a trap for you, but you'll be fine if you just go somewhere far away and hide."

Aziraphale cocked his head to one side. 

"Far away?"

The light, feeble as it had been, was rapidly fading. Crowley tightened his grip on Aziraphale's hand.

"Yes Angel, somewhere really, really far."

Aziraphale raised his free hand and tenderly wiped the tears from Crowley's cheeks.

"But my dear, if I don't come, they will destroy you." 

Crowley felt something clench where his Grace used to be. Is was nearly pitch dark, he could barely see Aziraphale anymore.

"If you do, they'll destroy us both."

Then it was truly dark, and silent, and Aziraphale's hand was gone.

Crowley was falling without sight nor sound. Cold air whipped at his hair, and stole the words from his mouth before they could be heard as he tried to yell for Aziraphale. He reached out desperately, but his freezing hands pawed at nothing. The horrible ache in his chest hadn't abated; without Aziraphale's hand to keep it in check, it grew. He twisted, trying to spread out his wings and stop his free fall, but they seemed as clumsy as his hands and only served to make him tumble about wildly. 

Crowley curled into a ball and tucked his wings around himself as closely as he could. Falling in darkness- this was horribly, agonizingly familiar. Only now, instead of Grace burning its way out of his core, ice had crept in. He was numb and lightheaded.

His last thought before he blacked out was, _Please keep him safe._

\---

Through the blackness laced a frisson of pain, which built until it crackled all around his brain and through every nerve. Crowley felt like he had been caught in the tentacles of a jellyfish, stung to the point he was no longer moving but instead dangling completely limp. His body hardly had the energy left in it to even react anymore; his screams had faded from full-throated howls at the first contact with the rosary, to sobs sometime later, to whimpers now. He might have been embarrassed if he’d been able to fully hear the sounds he was making.

Crowley was aware of the church around him, which was nearly dark and very cold, with the last beams of the setting sun quickly dissolving into night. His couldn't lift his head. All his bleary eyes could see were four pairs of shiny shoes, carefully avoiding the pool of sticky blood. Everything seemed very distant, like a thick veil was drawn over his consciousness, making it all seem muffled and obscured. The roaring from earlier when he had lost too much blood was back and worse than before.

Crowley’s voice at last gave out and he merely hung there, motionless. He was too exhausted to tremble from the cold. Even his breathing was frighteningly shallow. 

He thought he must have passed out for a long time, because the room began to brighten with the coming dawn. The polished shoes disappeared from sight. The glow grew brighter, until all he could register was the dazzling light. He closed his eyes but could still see it, and feel its warmth, seeming to seep into his frozen bones. He thought he heard something; voices, crashes, perhaps; but consciousness was a slippery thing. The last thing he perceived was a pair of hands reaching toward his face before he once again was falling through darkness. 

\---

Crowley finally crashed into the hard ground with a thud that jarred his bones. It was dark, but for a shaft of light that illuminated his form. He didn’t move, wasn’t sure he could, for a very long time. Finally, he stretched out one wing, and then the other, and pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. He carefully raised his head- and froze. There, a few yards ahead, was a second shaft of light. Crumpled in it, lying face down, was Aziraphale. 

Crowley made a choked sound. He tried to rise up to run to him, but he was too uncoordinated; he stumbled immediately back down to the ground. He scrambled, crawling, to the motionless body. He grasped hold of the angel and rolled him over so he was lying in his lap.

Aziraphale was unconscious. It seemed he had fallen too, but hadn’t tucked in on himself the way Crowley had. His wings were battered, feathers ruffled or missing entirely. The right wing lay at an odd angle. His face was ashen.

Crowley clutched him, grasped his hand and held it tightly. “Aziraphale?”

No reply.

Crowley took a shuddering breath. “Aziraphale?”

Nothing.

"Not a very graceful landing."

Crowley jerked his head up. _Gabriel._ The archangel stood a few feet away, looking much the same he had in the church. His wings, like Crowley and Aziraphale's, were unfurled; but pristine and almost shining in the light from above. Crowley clutched Aziraphale tighter to him.

Gabriel snorted derisively, "Don't worry. I'm not going to take him from you." Crowley bared his teeth anyway, ready to fight as long as he was able.

Gabriel looked at Aziraphale in disgust, "Keep him if you want. He's not our problem anymore." With that, he flexed his wings and took off.

It took a moment for the meaning of Gabriel's words to sink into Crowley's mind.

_No._

Crowley gently stroked Aziraphale's hair. "Angel?" His voice cracked on the word.

Still no sign that he could hear him. Crowley sobbed, “Please.”

But there was no reply. Aziraphale was silent, and the paltry light faded. 

“AZIRAPHALE!”


	7. Chapter Seven

The scream tore out of Crowley's throat as he jerked upright and away from the dream. Bright light streamed into his eyes, disorienting him. Arms caught and held him firmly but gently across the chest as a voice shushed him, “My dear, it's quite alright. You're having a nightmare, but it's not real. You’re safe.” Crowley stopped weakly thrashing and blinked the world into resolution. He sat back.

_Aziraphale._

The relief Crowley felt flooding through his body was so immense that, for the moment, it crowded out all thoughts or questions. He simply threw his arms around Aziraphale’s chest and clutched him tightly, fingers digging into his battered old waistcoat, face pressed into his shoulder. Aziraphale carefully looped his arms around Crowley's back. Neither said anything for a moment while Crowley breathed several shaky breaths in and out. This was real. They were in his bedroom. He was dressed in his black silk pajamas, sitting up in his overpriced (and yet free) bed, with Aziraphale perched on the edge and twisted at an angle to facilitate the embrace.

Without drawing back, Crowley rasped against the velvet, "Are you alright?"

He felt Aziraphale's hold tighten. "Oh, my dear. Yes, I'm alright."

Crowley sat back so he could look Aziraphale in the face. He looked haggard, a tightness around his eyes, hair more disheveled than normal, but very much whole. It was clear that he had been keeping an anxious vigil over Crowley.

Peering over his shoulder, Crowley's eyes darted around the room. All seemed normal. The light was at an afternoon slant. His jacket was neatly laid across a chair in the corner. Crowley drew in a steadying breath and risked a glance at the floor. Not a trace of the blood circle remained; the dark floor was as shiny and pristine as it had always been. He released the breath. 

“Did they...” Crowley swallowed, unsure of how to ask the question. He sat back, but kept his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders to anchor himself. Yellow eyes locked onto hazel ones. “Dagon was with you.”

Aziraphale’s face hardened, a terrible viciousness glinting through. “Yes. And Hastur.”

Crowley blanched.

Aziraphale drew in a long, careful breath. “I dispatched Hastur. Rather effectively. Dagon fled. This was right after-” He breathed in again slowly- “right after Dagon phoned Michael.”

Crowley shuddered. He felt the same terror rising in him that he felt when he thought for certain that Aziraphale would walk into the angels’ trap, and they would both suffer and die.

Aziraphale carefully touched his elbow with one hand. It seemed to be for his own sake as much as Crowley’s; he barely seemed to be able to contain his rage. “You have nothing to worry about. They’re gone too.”

Crowley opened and closed his mouth, then opened it again, “How? Zira, there were four of them.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened at the new nickname. The rage in his face calmed, and was replaced by something more composed, and a little pleased. He cleared his throat, “Do you remember anything?”

Crowley thought hard. He remembered a warm light that grew brighter and brighter. Polished shoes disappearing from sight. The sound of panicked running, crashes. A percussive force, a giant pulse of energy, erupting its way through the church, the light blindingly bright… and then fading to a soft glow. Warm hands. Aziraphale’s touch on his face, carefully cradling. His face, alight with righteous fury, but quickly dissolving to horrified panic as he realized how close to death Crowley truly was...

Crowley nodded, almost imperceptible from his sudden trembling, and dropped his hands to his lap. 

“I’m not even sure what I did, but I think it was, and will be, enough to keep us safe.” Aziraphale gave a tired smile and added, “It took a lot out of me; that, and healing you. How do you feel?”

Crowley hardly knew, even if he trusted himself to answer around his rather unsteady breathing. He lifted his shaking right hand and slipped it in a gap between his shirt buttons to touch his breastbone, where the rosary had rested. No burns remained, just smoothly healed skin. Air was punched out of his lungs only to be drawn back in quickly in several gulping breaths. The last one he held in as he moved his still shaking hand to his face. He was almost too afraid to touch his tattoo, the memory of being branded still raw in his mind. But when his fingers finally ghosted across it, he found that it too was perfectly healed. 

“Did I-” Aziraphale’s voice wavered slightly, “Did I mend it alright?”

Crowley reached out, and with a thought and a snap of his fingers, produced a steaming cup of tea, just the way Aziraphale liked it, sitting on the bedside table. He released the breath he had been holding and let his eyes slide shut in relief. His voice was hoarse as he replied, “Yeah, you did it perfectly.”

Aziraphale, too, released a breath that was very shaky. “Oh, thank goodness. I knew it was some sort of spell, the sigil itself meant ‘bind’, but I didn’t know how to heal it properly,” He reached up and gently placed two fingertips against the snake tattoo. “I did the best I could, but the damage was, well, more intangible than it looked, and so I- Crowley? What-”

Crowley had made a choking sound in his throat. Realisation slammed into him like a train. He reached up to clumsily grasp at Aziraphale’s hand, pressing it fully against his face. 

“My dear, what is it?”

"Angel, your hand doesn't burn."

"Beg pardon?"

He grasped Aziraphale’s free hand with his own. "Angel, _your hands aren't burning me anymore._ " Crowley felt nauseated. His last nightmare flickered in his mind, his breath coming in short gasps as hysteria began to take over. _No. Aziraphale can't have Fallen. Not for this. Not for me._

"Crowley, please, I don't understand." Aziraphale shifted so he was fully sitting on the bed and facing Crowley. He was clearly alarmed. He raised his right hand so that both were carefully cradling Crowley's face, thumbs stroking lightly against his cheekbones.

Crowley forced his breathing to slow, focusing on the warmth on his face to steady himself. It was so like his earlier dreams in the grassy field, except with no angry sky or sea threatening them. He closed his eyes. "Do you remember, in 1941, when I found you in that church?"

Aziraphale smiled in spite of his anxiousness, "Of course, my dear. You saved my books."

Crowley swallowed thickly, "Do you remember how my feet burned, walking to you?" He opened his yellow eyes to look at Aziraphale. 

“Yes, they burned because of the consecrated ground, it's the same reason that rosary made such a terrible burn on- Oh. Oh." Horror passed over Aziraphale's face. His thumbs stilled as realisation dawned. His voice dropped to a whisper, "I didn't know. I never even considered… Crowley, there are so many times I touched you…" Crowley could see him remembering, adding up millennia of casual contact, totaling how much pain he must have inadvertently caused. He lifted his hands from Crowley’s face and made to draw them back. 

Crowley surprised even himself by how quickly he reached up to catch Aziraphale’s wrists so as to keep his hands in place. “But they don’t burn me now.” His voice was shaking. “It can only… it has to mean…” He broke off.

Aziraphale looked stupefied. “You think I’ve Fallen.”


	8. Chapter 8

Aziraphale and Crowley sat in stunned silence. Crowley’s hands shook where they still clutched Aziraphale’s wrists. _Fallen._ After everything, all those years of trying to protect him; from the guillotine at the Bastille, from the Nazis in the church during the Blitz, from the Apocalypse (though he had really done nothing), from the revenge of their erstwhile comrades; but in the end he still wasn’t able to keep Aziraphale safe from God’s wrath. He dropped his grip and withdrew from Aziraphale’s touch to cover his face with his own hands. 

“My dear, listen to me,” Aziraphale spoke slowly, “I haven’t Fallen. As hellish as these last few days have been, I don’t remember anything at all like- well, like that. I don’t imagine it's the sort of thing one forgets.” 

Crowley gave muffled laugh, “Yeah. That’s a good point.” He sniffed and dropped his hands, “It’s not something you forget.” He tried not to think of it. _His chest an empty cavity scooped clean of Grace, tumbling madly in free fall, landing in sulphur, screaming madly the entire time..._

Aziraphale smiled and reached back for Crowley’s face. “Then maybe we are fine.”

Crowley shook his head. “There’s something else I don’t understand,” He briefly closed his eyes; Aziraphale had begun to gently stroke his cheekbones again. “Gabriel said they took me so they could trade me for you. Why couldn’t Gabriel and his lot find you? And Hastur and Dagon find me?” 

Aziraphale’s eyes went a bit unfocused for a moment, but he kept softly moving his thumbs against Crowley’s cheeks. “So, two mysteries. First, why were we hidden from our own respective sides? And second, why can you bear my touch now if I haven’t Fallen?”

They fell silent, contemplating, Aziraphale’s hands still cupping Crowley’s cheeks, Crowley’s hands reaching up to hold his wrists. Crowley, though healed, felt incredibly weak. He let his eyes close so he could focus more on the warm touch than on the questions. 

Finally, Aziraphale breathed in and out deeply and said, “Well, I suppose you might say it’s ineffable.”

Crowley’s eyes snapped open and he abruptly dropped his hands. “No.”

Aziraphale stilled his hands, but didn’t move them. “Well, why not?”

Crowley was tense like he hadn’t been since right after his nightmare. He very nearly growled, “Don’t you dare bring Her into this-”

“My dear-”

“No!” Aziraphale abruptly leaned away and folded his hands carefully in his lap. Crowley continued without pause, “If She wanted us safe why didn’t She protect us properly, from everyone? Why do it only halfway? If She wanted us punished, why bother to interfere at all?” Crowley’s voice rose until he was outright shouting, “Why wait until after all of the madness to allow us to be close? It's like giving a bratty child a biscuit if only they eat their carrots! Was this all some stupid test to see if we deserved it?”

Silence fell for a moment, then two, after Crowley's tirade ended. Finally Aziraphale took a deep breath and said carefully, “I don’t know, Crowley. I don’t think we can ever know. I don’t even know if I deserve,” He cautiously pressed fingertips into Crowley’s hand, “This.”

Crowley felt drained by his outburst. He twisted his wrist so he could properly clasp Aziraphale’s hand. He swallowed, and a bit gruffly said, “Your tea’s gone cold, Angel.” 

Aziraphale didn’t pay it any mind. He seemed to collect his thoughts for a moment. Finally he leaned closer.

“Crowley. When we thought the Apocalypse was going to take away everything, it proved to me that there’s nothing I love more than those things I have found here on Earth. I’m sorry to say it took nearly losing them to realise what I want. My books. Restaurants. Walks in the park.” He took a very shaky breath and squeezed Crowley’s hand tightly. “And you.”

Crowley looked into Aziraphale’s face, who was smiling slightly, relieved to have finally said it.

Aziraphale went on, “I want to be at your side more than any I want of those other things. More than anything else that there is. More than I want or ever wanted Heaven.” He laughed a bit sheepishly. “Maybe I have Fallen a little after all.”

Crowley was stunned into silence.

Aziraphale bit his lip and looked at his lap. Then he raised his eyes back up to Crowley’s, “They had you for a long time. You could have given my location up at any point. You ought to have been so out of your mind that you should have done, even if you didn’t mean to.” He breathed deeply. “But you managed to ascend above the torture enough to keep me safe. Don’t you think that makes you a little bit… good?”

Crowley’s lips moved wordlessly. Then he lunged forward to grasp Aziraphale in a tight embrace. 

Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley in turn, and pressed his face into his hair to murmur, “I am so sorry I took so long.”

Crowley knew ‘so long’ both did and didn’t mean to rescue him. He wanted to say the thing he’d been feeling for a long time now, but his throat felt swollen shut with the emotion. He tried to form a sentence, but all he was able to croak out was, “Angel, I...” 

He felt Aziraphale’s chest rumble as he replied, “Oh, my love, I know. Me too.”


	9. Epilogue

Aziraphale sat very still in the passenger seat of the Bentley, his posture stiff, staring straight ahead. Crowley was turned toward him, his left leg bent, one elbow on the backrest and the other on the steering wheel, waiting patiently. He’d taken off his sunglasses and they dangled in his hand. The car idled, exhaust floating lazily up into the frigid winter air. The heater was working diligently to keep them both warm.

Aziraphale repeated what he had already said several times over the past week, many times over the past twenty four hours, and no less than ten times over the just completed hour long drive, “I think this is a bad idea.”

Crowley didn’t respond. He had already said everything that he was thinking or feeling, argued all his points. So had Aziraphale. They’d each made it clear that they were sticking to their own sides on this matter, the first time they’d really disagreed since Crowley had been saved.

“It will only make the nightmares worse for you, my love, I’m sure of it.” Aziraphale finally turned to Crowley, agony written plain on his face. 

Crowley couldn’t help but smile as he reached for Aziraphale’s hand. The pet name was only a couple of months old, but every time he heard it he felt a thrill like it was brand new. 

“I know you’re scared for me, angel,” Crowley rubbed his thumb over his knuckles, “But I’m not. I need this closure.”

Aziraphale didn’t say anything, just stared at their joined hands and shook his head slowly.

“You don’t have to come in with me, Zira. Car’s warmer, anyway.”

Whether it was the proposition or his own new pet name, Aziraphale raised his head and steeled himself as he looked Crowley in the eyes. It was clear from his expression that there were many other things he wanted to say, but he merely whispered, “Alright. Let’s go.”

They squeezed each other’s hands before pulling apart. Crowley put his sunglasses back on, and they turned to their doors to get out. 

The outside air leached away heat as soon as they stepped into it. Crowley shut his door and walked around to the passenger side to stand next to Aziraphale, who crossed his arms against the cold. Crowley slid his fingers into his too-small trouser pockets, and gazed across frozen ground, frost glittering over gravestones and dead grass. The midmorning sun shone coldly through the clear sky, illuminating the pale stones of the Church of St. Mary the Virgin. For a long moment they stared at the edifice. All was quiet. The cold kept most people inside their homes, and a small miracle kept away the rest.

Aziraphale uncrossed his arms and reached over for Crowley’s hand, pulling it out of the pocket so he could intertwine their fingers. “Whenever you are ready,” He said softly.

They strode across the grounds, hand in hand, frost crunching underfoot, and together pushed the doors open to go inside.

The interior was similarly deserted. Their footsteps echoed in the silence as they advanced up the aisle. Crowley stopped about halfway, Aziraphale stilling too, carefully studying his face, ready to whisk him far away the second he asked.

Crowley hummed, “It doesn’t burn as much as it used to.”

They continued up the aisle to the spot where they’d kept him bound. Crowley swallowed carefully. _Steady blows echoing dully. Blood spilling out and down. Fire lancing through his veins. Screaming. The overpowering fear that they’d get Aziraphale too._ He breathed in and out roughly. Aziraphale’s hand was very warm in his, holding very tight.

“The nightmare always starts right here. They have me, they’re hurting me. They threaten you… but then-” This was when the dream would morph from a simple flashback into something less real but infinitely more monstrous. “Then they have you too.” He closed his eyes, though that did nothing to stop the sick feeling in his stomach. _Aziraphale, bound on an identical cross, facing him from a few feet away. Their captors torturing them both, sometimes at the same time, sometimes alone so the other could watch with no distractions. Aziraphale bleeding, breaking, screaming for him..._

Crowley took a shuddering breath. He could feel Aziraphale’s eyes on him. Crowley turned toward him and bent his head down until came to rest on his shoulder, clutching him for stability. Aziraphale wrapped him up in his warm arms. They stood holding each other for a long time, reminding themselves the other was there, safe, and that the torment was over. 

Finally, Crowley felt steady enough to pull away. He laced his fingers with Aziraphale’s.

“I’m done here. Let’s go.” He pulled Aziraphale’s hand up to kiss the knuckles, then turned and began to walk toward the exit. He paused and twisted to look back one last time. Sunlight illuminated the empty space before the altar. All was quiet and calm. No stain remained on the floor. Crowley felt something settle in his chest, a tension dissolving from his shoulders he hadn’t realised was there.

Aziraphale squeezed his hand. Crowley turned and smiled at him, more relaxed than he’d felt in awhile. Aziraphale smiled back, looking relieved. They began to walk again.

“I think,” Crowley said as they neared the doors, “That I could do with some lunch.”

Aziraphale laughed softly, “I could as well.”

Still holding hands, they pushed the church doors open, and stepped into the world beyond, together.

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to everyone who read, gave kudos, and commented on this fic. I have never written anything this long before, not even close, but your kind words kept me going. I hope you all enjoyed it.
> 
> As always, special thanks to my beta reader, M, who doesn't have an AO3 account. 
> 
> Title comes from Psalms 143:6
> 
> Edit: you can find me on twitter @ sherlockthehol1 or tumblr @ sherlocktheholmeswrites


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